


The Kingmaker

by AmethystTribble



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Curvo and Mae fight, Gen, Post-Thanogorodrim Migraines, and it all feels bad, everyone is having a horrible time in beleriand, posted on tumblr what feels like a lifetime ago, the f words gets used a few times but I"m not calling this M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: Fingolfin needs a crown and Maedhros knows a smith.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	The Kingmaker

“How dare you.”

It was a lot to ask of Curufin.

But Maedhros could not renege on his plans now, and everything else was trivial compared to that. Curufin’s indignation was trivial. His anger was hollow, his words pointless, his accusations didn’t sting. There was nothing about this display that Maedhros couldn’t weather.

Still, if Maedhros had two hands, he would have used the one not fiddling with the quill to pinch his nose. But he didn’t have two hands, and Maedhros was worried his composure would break if he stopped twirling the feather between his fingers. Thus, he was forced to face the full brunt of Curufin’s hysteria without any buffer. What a life he now lived, where he couldn’t even make dismissive and rude gestures at his younger brothers easily.

What a life he was living, where he was commissioning Curufinwë to forge a crown for their half-uncle.

“It’s a political gesture.”

“It’s a farce!”

“Would it help to think of the work as a job? I’ll even pay you.”

Curufin laughed, and it was a nasty, cracked gesture that seemed to shake his whole body. The sound was pathetic enough that a shudder ran down Maedhros’ spine, and he had to look away. Curufin’s bloodshot eyes and gaunt face cut a figure to match many of the people in Morgoth’s prisons. His emotional state was similarly frayed and… loose to those jailbirds. Maedhros was trying to be accommodating of his brother’s sharp, cracked edges, as Curufin put himself back together.

After all, Maedhros had returned from Thanogorodrim down a sister-in-law. He imagined it was hard for Curufin to lose a father, a brother, and a wife in short succession. And to have the least loved of those three be the one that returned from the dead?

Well. Maedhros wasn’t offended. The lashing out was just sad, is what it was. Understandable. But Maedhros had let his understanding allow him to condone quite a few of his father’s more questionable actions to detrimental results. No more. And Curufin had never proven himself worthy of leeway.

“Curufinwë,” Maedhros asked, “what do I have to say to get us to skip this conversation?”

“How about, ‘Actually, I’ve decided not to spit upon Father’s legacy, I’ll gracefully accept the crown. The metaphorical one, yes, but also that very lovely one you just made me.’”

Maedhros closed his eyes briefly, and tipped his head back. He took a deep breath through his nose. Was this about the damn crown Curufin had made him while Maedhros was still bound to bed? Perhaps telling Curvo to melt it down for materials was rude. But looking at the hunk of metal made Maedhros feel ill, made him think of three gems wreathed black, of Sauron’s delight. Maedhros now has a scar across his cheek where the vile creature had beat him with his last coronet…

By Irmo, he was so tired.

“We both know where this ends, Curufinwë,” Maedhros told the ceiling. “I will not be moved on this point. Just agree or refuse.”

“Fuck you,” Curufin hissed, “You know there’s no choice.”

“Of course there is. If you don’t wish to make another, I won’t order you. I could just present Nolofinwë with my own crown. That does have a certain symbolic drama to it…”

Curufin drew in a sharp breath at the suggestion, and Maedhros turned back to look at him. Curufin’s lips were curled in disgust and fear, like the idea of Nolofinwë not wearing a custom made crown was an affront to Ilúvatar. Or maybe he was just upset that Maedhros cared so little about his gift. Curufin took his accessories too seriously. Maedhros could only barely remember when he himself had thought it was all that important.

“You don’t deserve to be Father’s son,” Curufin spat, and that one actually made Maedhros’ eyes widen. “You always wished you were Nolofinwë’s heir instead, and even now you use his devices. Don’t insult me with the illusion of choice, you dishonest cretin. Just give your orders or lick Nolofinwë’s boots already. You can’t play your games, can’t create these stupid rituals and then treat your resolve like it’s tin. Pick! Are you king or not? Do you command me or not?”

“I command you,” Maedhros replied, disdain dripping from his voice, “as your eldest brother. No matter what you, or I… might wish was the case.”

Curufin paused, breathing so heavily Maedhros could see the rise and fall of his chest from across the room. Then Curufin suddenly stalked forward. He loomed over Maedhros’ desk, and ripped the quill right from his hand. The paper was snatched from under Maedhros’ wrist, and Curufin bent over the page. He went to scribbling, periodically dipping the quill in the inkwell, splashing ink everywhere each time.

Maedhros watched, mildly curious, as Curufin worked, staring at his brother’s face. While he sketched, Curufin’s features smoothed out, growing placid and calm. His eyes darted rapidly, and Maedhros could practically perceive the calculations. Odd how creation soothed Curufin’s emotions, while it had only made Father more manic.

There was no quiet satisfaction or joy about Curufin when he looked up from the rudimentary sketches, though. He looked dead.

“Is this acceptable?”

Maedhros didn’t break his gaze from Curufin’s.

“Sure.”

“Very well then.” Curufin stood, grabbing the paper in his fist, crinkling it. He turned to go, but paused, his back turned to Maedhros.

“I hope you know what you’re giving up,” Curufin whispered.

“Of course,” Maedhros replied, and there was a pounding in his forehead. His vision was going a little blurry. “I’ll not ask anything of you again, Curufinwë. I know anything less than the orders of a king would be an insult to you.”

“Fuck you. You should have asked Tyelperinquar,” Curufin hissed as he walked away. He wretched the door open as Maedhros closed his eyes ones more to try and stave off the nausea. He picked up the quill again.

“Curufinwë!” Maedhros called, “Don’t put anything snide in the details of that crown!”

Curufin laughed again, and Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

“Make me party to the defilement of Father’s memory if you please, but don’t fucking insult me.”

The door slammed shut. Maedhros finally slumped in his chair, certain in the knowledge that he had lost Curufin for good. As the migraine set in, that new pain in his heart was a weird source of relief.

**Author's Note:**

> I re-read this five min ago and realized... this is good actually, and is of enough quality to be published on Ao3. If you haven't read my 2019 Feanorion Week one-shots, this is a direct follow-up to my one about Maglor, which you can also find on Ao3, albeit in a collection. I hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> Thank you for reading and for any comments or kudos you might feel inclined to leave. They're greatly appreciated.


End file.
